The First Time He Killed Himself
by BrokenKeyBlade
Summary: Jack Frost takes comfort in splitting his skin open. It's the first time, but certainly not the last. Sort of prequel to "Snowflakes". One-shot request-Mallory Mirkov. Warning! Self harm. T to be safe.


**Welcome to this fanfiction. So, if you haven't read my JackxJamie story, Snowflakes, that's okay. This is a sort of prequel, and never mentions Jamie. BUT! If you plan on reading Snowflakes, I recommend reading that before this.**

**So, this was requested by Mallory Mirkov for my 50th reviewer prize. Thanks Mallory(and all my other fans)!**

**I like the beginning of this... But towards the end... I dunno. I hope you guys like it.**

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Life was something beautiful, but as predictable as a hummingbird. In only one week and twenty four hours, the Frost family's had changed from simple and cheery to a complete and fluttering nightmare. It was almost amazing at how quickly and inconsistent changes that impact the course of one's life could ruin every single thing.

Jack had gotten out of the hospital five days ago. Though only suffering from the flu physically, inside in his heart and head, he was dying. He had let his sister die, right in front of him, right in the span of his reach. It was all his fault. Had his father's friend not have been there when he went in after her, he'd be dead too. It would be better that way. He deserved it. His poor, innocent little sister was gone when he should be the one frozen under the ice. Jack knew that it'd be better if he were dead too, if not in her place.

Emma didn't deserve what happened to her. She was so sweet and loving. So young. Jack loved her terribly, and ever since she was a baby he knew he had to take care of her and make her laugh. When she went deaf at age three, his protective instinct just grew, and he went to her sign language classes to learn with her. Mr. ManSnoozie taught them, and Jack would always find the time, no matter what, to practice with her until the both of them could talk in fluent sentences.

Jack knew instantly that day that something was wrong. Emma didn't like to talk out loud unless she really needed someone's attention, and she yelled out Jack's name when he was about to put his skates on. Looking around, he saw her standing on cracking ice. He could feel his heart drop and palms begin to sweat.

_It's okay_, he signed and stepped lightly onto the ice, noticing it was still rather solid there. _I'll get you. Don't move._

Jack tried his best to weigh nothing, but as he neared her, he could hear and see the ice crackle and he knew this wasn't going to turn out well.

_Keep your eyes on me._ He signed and stopped a few feet short of her.

"I'm scared." She rasped out, too terrified to move her hands.

_I know. But it'll be okay. _He inhaled slowly and took a step forward. It cracked and he winced.

"Don't worry." He said, and she read his lips and shook her head. How could she not worry? "I'll get you."

Now only a foot away, Jack reached out to snag on her coat and yank her to solid ice. The frozen water creaked and shattered, and his heart pounded. Just inches from touching her sleeve, the ice gave out.

"Emma!" He called out and tried to grab her hood, but it lightly brushed his fingertips and she was gone.

"Emma, no, Emma." He repeated and he could feel himself starting to hyperventilate.

He couldn't let her die. Not even three seconds after she fell through, he dove in after her. For a second he thought he could hear someone calling his name, but the instant he went under, he couldn't think of anything.

It was pitch black, and he could feel the fear seeping into him, sucking the heat from his limbs and driving the hope of surviving out. He didn't see her. He couldn't see anything. He couldn't even feel his body. He felt as though he was a building, with the lights flickering out and the heater dying in the middle of winter. He couldn't hold his breath any longer. He couldn't help but inhale. His eyes were closing shut. He was slipping. He was dying.

It felt like an eternity before he opened his eyes, blinking like mad. His father was yelling something and propping him up, pounding his back to get the water out of his lungs. His brain was foggy, and he couldn't conjure up any coherent thoughts. All he knew was that we was so cold he felt like he was on fire, his lungs were burning, and his father was crying. He quickly passed out again.

The next time he opened his eyes, he was in the hospital, with blinding white all around him and the sting of antiseptic in his nose. His arms were covered in tape and tubes, and his veins were shining bright blue against his almost translucently pale skin. His mom was sitting in the corner, her head in her hands, hunched over and silently sobbing.

"Mom," Jack croaked. He was so thirsty.

She looked up instantly, her cheeks damp.

"Oh sweetie..." She started to cry again. "Thank god you're okay."

She stood up and walked over to his side. With a shaking hand, she touched his face.

"Where's dad? Is he with Emma?" He suddenly remembered why he was here. "Is she okay?"

His mother didn't answer. Her face pinched up, and she began to weep, stroking his cheek with a quivering lip.

"Mom... tell me she's okay." He whispered, and his voice cracked. He could feel the sinking guilt and anguish settling in his gut. Something was very very wrong.

"Shh... Jack..."

"Just... where is she? Is she somewhere in here? Is she not doing good? Will she be okay?" Jack spoke urgently. "Please tell me she's okay."

"Jack, please, stop." Her voice wavered and broke into pieces. She sobbed.

"Mom, just tell me." Jack's eyes watered and he bit his lip hard.

"Jack, hunnie, Emma's not coming back." She swallowed the huge lump in her throat, and scooted one of the chairs closer to his bed and took his hand in hers.

He wanted to ask where she was. He wanted to play dumb. He wanted to scream. But the very instant she went under he knew.

Jack let out a terrible sob and covered his face with his hand. His shoulders shook, and even though his lungs and throat burned and ached, he couldn't stop crying. It was all his fault. Emma was gone and it was his fault.

Jack later found out that Adam, Mr. Frost's friend and their neighbor, had been taking his kids to the pond, and saw Jack right before he jumped in. He had his son run and get Jack's father, and his daughter go get blankets from their house. He slipped his arms in the ice to grab Jack, who had passed out by then, and drug him out and to the shore, where his father had reached by then. Emma was nowhere to be found. They called 911, where Jack was hauled off to the hospital with his mother, and Emma's body would be retrieved.

Jack was now at his house. He couldn't do much but lay on his bed and cry. Emma had been buried three days previous, and Jack tried to go say goodbye one last time and be there for his parents, but the morning of, he couldn't even get out of his bed. He just lay on his side, curled up like a child and hugging himself.

A whole week had gone by since Emma's passing. Jack had kept hating himself a little more each day he hadn't heard her laugh or seen her smile. The house grew solemn and cold. There was a huge gaping hole missing from all of them, but Jack's was bleeding and killing him.

As of right now, he was actually sitting up on his bed, blankly staring at the staff that he propped up on his wall four days ago. His eyes were itchy and throat tight and sore. His heart felt heavy and ached. His body ached. His head ached.

He stood up slowly and rubbed his eyes. With a great effort he walked out of his room and padded down the hall to the bathroom. He hadn't taken a shower in forever, and his brown hair stuck up in crazy angles. He tried to pat it down to no avail. His arm just fell limply at his side and he stared at his reflection for something-anything-but all he saw was a fourteen year old boy who let his little sister die. He hated the person he saw in the mirror.

Jack's vision fogged over and his lip quivered, so he bit it until he drew blood. He crossed his arms over his body, and he dug his nails into his sides. It pinched and stung, but he paid no mind to it. It was nothing compared to what he was feeling inside him. He could take more pain than that right now. He wanted to. He wanted to feel _something_ other than the breaking and burning and deteriorating of his soul.

Jack brought his hands up to his hair and grabbed fist fulls of it and groaned with a pained expression. The moisture in his eyes bubbled over and dripped down his chin and landed on his bare chest. His breathing was shaky. He felt unstable and weak.

Blindly reaching out for the doorknob, he found purchase and twisted it. He made his way to his bedroom, stumbling, and shut his door and locked it. His breath came in heaves and he chest started to hurt again, but he couldn't help it. He couldn't stop. His body was acting on its own accord.

He just wanted it to stop. He wanted to be able to sleep. He wanted to stop feeling like shit.

Jack stumbled and bumped into his nightstand, where his glass of water tipped over and shattered on the ground. He muttered a curse and rubbed the moisture from his eyes. Stooping down, he collected up the broken pieces, and went to throw them away, when one of the shards, long and dangerous, sliced his thumb. He drew in a breath and dropped them. Then he inspected his finger, which started to bleed slightly.

For some odd, completely strange, very demented reason, Jack sort of liked the way it felt. It scared him. But gave him a rush. It made him forget for a second. But it also made him feel sick.

He pushed all those thoughts away for a second and picked up the shard of glass. He twirled it around. The one side was curved and extremely sharp looking. A weird feeling shot through his body, and without even thinking, he brought it to his arm and slide it across his skin. A shiver ran up his spine.

"Hmm..." He mumbled and watched the cut well up. It stung. It was a sensation unfamiliar, but oddly... addicting.

Jack sat on the edge of his bed, the piece of glass clutched in his hand and eyes glued on his little wound. He brought it back to his arm and dug it down without sliding it across. It bit his skin and he pulled back. With a little quirk of his lip, he cut his arm again, this time longer and harder than the first, and inhaled slowly as it pinched and bled. He bit his lip.

He swiped his hand over his cuts, and they smudged on his fingertips and the length of his forearm. It only irritated them more, but he felt it oddly comforting. His heartbeat slowed and calmed. He felt tired, but not in the way he had been for the past week. He felt like he could really sleep.

Jack put the shard on his nightstand and layed down on his bed. With a yawn, he switched off the lamp and stared up at the ceiling. His mind was slowed and dulled. He felt numbed. But in a sweetly unfamiliar way.

Throughout the next few years, carrying the guilt of what happened over his head, night after night, Jack took comfort in the biting sting of the wounds that he inflicted upon himself. It was something beautiful, that destroyed him slowly, but he knew that when his emotions felt heavy and dragging, hurting himself was much better than the other option that nagged at the back of his head.


End file.
